A life lived in the feminine. Hear my tales.

Month: August 2013

I just wrote 3 additional pages to my memoir tonight. I am close to finally finishing my baby, and I have been working on this for a long time.

People wonder why it takes so long, yet this isn’t fiction. I am not dealing with characters from my mind or imagination. If I were, I could treat them with a different perspective and emotional stance, but since I am writing my own story, it is a whole different ball game.

Tonight I was working on a section that covered a sad and dark time in my life, and after three pages, I just couldn’t keep going for the night. It is not always fun to write about these things so honestly, yet I feel in order for the book to be authentic and worthwhile in a literary fashion, I have to be distant enough to provide a perspective that I didn’t have while in the actual situation. And even though I am more than distant from the scenario I wrote about, since I am having a bad day, I find it hard to face the page for extended periods of time.

One of the things I love about doing comedy is that I can take dark moments and make light (er) of them. It is a refreshing break for me, and provides me with a different medium in which to be artistic. It also makes me happy, usually, although I sometimes find the atmosphere of comedy to not be so awesome.

Writing a book however, is such a mentally and emotionally fulfilling project, but it is one that takes time.

You need to have space from yourself in order to craft a memoir that can really bring depth, humor, and honesty, in my opinion. From the first day I started until now, I can tell you that I have finally learned what the real heart of the book is, and where the meat of my story is. If someone asked me years ago to write a book jacket for my upcoming memoir, I would have panicked. Now that I have spent a great deal of time writing this book along with more time and perspective, that book jacket doesn’t seem so daunting.

I know the story so intimately not only because it is my own, but because I have spent so much time crafting it, that I know what is it that needs to be told, and for the most part, what doesn’t.

But on days when I am feeling sad or doubtful, it is hard to face the page with the same expertise and skill that I normally have.

This project has been such a big deal to me, and I cannot wait to have it published, and it will be.

Lately I see a lot of women in my life questioning the men in their lives, and often with good cause. Men say women are complicated, and dare I say it, I agree, although we must be careful to not pigeonhole people by gender. Some women are simple and some men are complicated dudes We women are socialized to be so nice and polite, yet when our feelings conflict with these socialized norms, we experience conflict, and don’t often say what we think.

Consider the common phrases like “Whatever,” or ” It doesn’t matter,” when you can damn well tell that it sure as hell does matter. I know many women who are sometimes afraid to say what they think, so there is a disconnect between action and emotion that men then have to interpret. They tell you, “whatever,” when what they really mean is, “I am so upset right now!” There are a billion Facebook memes about this female communication strategy that rarely works, if you ask me, but then again, I am a direct woman. Ask and you shall receive the blatant truth.

Men–in my experience and of course, not all men will fall into this category as we are all individuals with varied characteristics,–are simple folk.

I see friends and family–and myself at times, questioning male behavior, but to me, the basic primitive communication skills of the average male is pretty cut and dry.

So instead of paying the big bucks to read some book about men, here are my general tips. You can thank me later or send me money…or a cleaning guy who also strips. That would certainly be handy.

1- If he likes you, he will call you. Or text you.

Men hunt for what they want. If they want you, they will contact you. They want to secure their desired object.

Moral of story? If he doesn’t contact you, he doesn’t like you.

Exception: if he only contacts you late at night when he is drunk, he only likes your vagina.

2- He is not being coy. He isn’t into you.

If a guy says it is over or he doesn’t want a relationship than there is no way you will convince him otherwise. It doesn’t matter if you have five vaginas, or twenty hands. It’s done or it wasn’t about to begin in the first place. He isn’t struggling to express himself woman, he told you exactly what he means.

The caveman was simple and direct. If he says it, he probably means it.

Exception: if he is mentally ill, he may want a relationship with you still, but be wary of a dude on heavy meds.

3-Guys solve problems.

Guys like to solve problems. Listening to you ramble about a fight with your girlfriend is not exactly a fun time for an XY. He likes to solve problems rather than commiserate over them. Accept this and you will learn to appreciate the various solutions a gentleman will offer you. It’s a sign of care that he wants to help, even if you want him to shut up and listen.

4- Men are visual–mostly.

When a man is confused, draw a picture. If he is mad at you, wear something x-rated. Plead your case well, but do it in a visual manner.

Exception: if he is color blind, watch the color choices in your “attire.” If he is blind, don’t draw him a picture. Scream in his ear.

5- I have no freaking clue about men. I wrote this list up to prove how little I know about men. Men of the world are all laughing at me and my diatribes. I have now led women to destruction, and no one will ever date or love or marry again.

I am in my thirties. I am capable of change, but not capable of transforming myself into some other person. No one probably really is. A quiet person is not going to become loud most likely, although I’ve never ran any stats on the matter.

I know who I am, but sometimes I wish I were a little different, although then I would probably be dull and boring, or possibly easily satisfied. I will never know.

I am heart on the sleeve, and foot in the mouth. I say what I feel, I show all my cards, and rarely will I play a hand in some crafty way when dealing with people. I wish I had the ability to play it cool, or just be a distant bitch sometimes, but guess what, apparently I am the sensitive romantic type and so that means I am all poetry and passion, rather than strategy and logic.

I recognize that thanks to my lust for life and people, I am a fun person to be around and very loving, but sometimes, when I am feeling particularly vulnerable or afraid, I curse this gift I have. I wish I could stealthily hide my thoughts and heart, because so many people take advantage of this whether they be female or male, friend or stranger.

It’s a weakness to be nice. It’s a weakness to be passionate or emotional. It must be related to being crazy or female, oh yeah…that whole stereotype that drives me nuts. Don’t even get me on that rant.

I wish it were more valued to be a warm and passionate person. Without people like me, there would be no poetry, no tasteful erotic movies, no music, no art, and pulse.

Yes, I am not a bitch. I remember passing by a book at Barnes and Nobles when I was in my twenties called, “Men love Bitches,” and instead of picking up the book I thought to myself, “I am doomed.”

Sure, I can ream someone out when need be, but I am not a bitch. I am not cold. I am not the one planning your death while shaking your hand. I am the one who wants to be your friend. Who smiles at strangers and offers to help. Who puts her heart out and hopes that it indeed, won’t get smushed, yet so often it is.

I wish sometimes to be that bitchy woman that apparently exists in the universe, but I never will be.

As a woman who grew up in a predominately female household, I didn’t learn that we were inferior or incapable of doing things that society indicated was otherwise.

But as I left my home and became integrated into society–school, work, college, etc, I learned differently.

To admit this is maybe weak but, for a long majority of my life I have defined myself by Men. By their standards, judgments, and beliefs about me. Or about my otherness in relation to them. My wanting access to the circle that only men belong to. Forget about the glass ceiling. I didn’t want to be the most successful female. I wanted to be the most successful person, period. I wanted the men to lay in their tears while I threw tissues to them on the ground, walking away in triumph.

One thing I have hated since I was as young as seven years old, was the feeling that the male circle was impenetrable. I hated when boys gathered to talk and gossip or dominated classroom conversations. I wasn’t considering that these little men might just want to be around other little men, but that because I was female I couldn’t join in. It didn’t matter that I was smarter than most of them or as equal to them, or that the same jokes they liked, I did too. I just had to merely squeak by the circle, and lean in to hear what these XY’s were saying.

Then I got older, and then the circle got even tighter. When I was younger, an occasional boy would let me in, and even let me play sports with the kids on the block. As I got older though, the message was clear: If you don’t have a cock, keep out. Having good looks occasionally meant entering into the circle, but usually then for other reasons such as, one man or a few men’s sexual needs. Maybe one or two might have found me clever and smart. Most were not considering me beyond what my appearance had to offer.

I imagine my experience is no different than many other women, however the thoughts, rejections, and acceptances from men really whittled me down. For the majority of my early twenties, I found male attention and approval intoxicating on the level of addicting, and their rejection, painful and harsh.

When I entered stand-up, I found men to be either wonderful and helpful, or absolute toxic creatures who liked to shut me out of conversations with not just looks, but with words. Telling me I wasn’t smart and wasn’t funny. These were the same men of course, who wanted to sleep with me.

Let’s not let the cute one succeed. Instead, let’s take her for all of her good parts, and throw the rest of her to the wolves.

The one moment of fresh air came when I entered college. While my former educational experiences taught me that the boys are more cherished and nurtured intellectually, college was a bit more fair and egalitarian. I felt like my intellect and potential mattered.

There have been many times in my life pre-30’s in which I let men decide where I would be allowed to go both personally, and professionally. I cowed to their toxic comments. I backed away at times when I wanted to be treated as an intellectual and artistic equal, yet I always had a bit of a fight in me, like a scrappy dog who refuses to get beaten down by a shinier, larger full-breed. The same girl who wanted to beat every boy competitively, not physically, in elementary school has always been alive and well.

After spending a long time–years–working on my memoir, I realize that claiming my identity and refusing to let it be defined by anyone, especially men was my big hurdle to cross.

After six years departing from comedy, I went back last night. I went back because I will not let men tell me what I can do or who I can be. I am not 25 anymore. I am not someone’s plaything or some stupid blonde.

I am me, and after taking the time to do other important things–reproduce, finish college, get my head together–I decided I wanted to share my story in more than just the printed word again, and I won’t shut up until someone enjoys me. Until someone figures out that my story is much like many other women and people.

Parents. People of the general Public. Strangers who don’t know me and might give a F%$k.

If you want to know if your teenager is messed up or if you may have been messed up, read my blog detailing signs that indicate true issues and indicators of neuroses, et. al.

Note: I do not have a psychology degree. Just 60 credits of psychology, and 60 years of therapy.

If you are still not sure, seek mental help or ask your parents to remind you of how badly they screwed you up. If you still need more clarity and happen to be married, I can assure you.

You were messed up.

Sign #1: Hanging out with Total Dirtbags

I had quite a few jerks I hung out with. Most of these individuals were overage, and had no business hanging out with someone my age. One dude looked like a washed-up, receding hairline version of Meatloaf. His friend was worse. ZZ Top with a pit-stained wifebeater, handlebar mustache, and dirty acid washed Wrangler Jeans.

Need I say more?

If your kid or you are hanging out with total degenerates, chances are you’ve got low-self-esteem.

Thank me later when you’re knee-deep in psychoanalysis.

#2 Dropping Acid Alone

If you were taking drugs by yourself or your kid is, chances are there are some major issues. Drugs are more fun when taken with others I imagine, but I guess I was so depressed taking acid alone became a good idea.

Add ten bonus points and at least an extra three years in therapy if your kid or you took drugs alone while listening to morbid music.

#3 Sign you are Messed up: Low Standards

If your idea of true love was some guy not kicking, hitting, or berating you and calling you a whore, your standards were pretty low. If a guy gave you a simple hug and you fell in love with him on the spot, you had or have, issues.

If You have a complicated relationship with your dad, you earn one antidepressant and at least three family therapy sessions along with your twelve plus years of psychoanalysis.

#4 Signs you were messed up: If You Dressed ugly, but thought it was cute

If you wore some dark depressing clothes or gave yourself some retarded haircut because you felt it would “relate” your true inner self, you were probably a depressed and messed up teenager.

Add one trip to the dreaded psychiatrist if you cut yourself.

#5 Signs You were a Messed Up Teenager

If your sexual partners were over the age of 18 and you were under the age of 15, sign yourself into a mental hospital or “day spa.”

Do Not Pass Go.

I hope these signs help you or help someone you love.

Actually, if you are reading this blog and can say you have all five signs, we should just get together and start group therapy.

Actually, if you are reading this blog and have all five signs, and are still alive and kicking, damnit, you deserve a beer and a hug.

Teenagers: It gets better. It does. It does if you want it to. No individual can decide your fate. Only you can. People tried to bring me down, and damn did I live in the muck for awhile, but look at me now.

I check out numerous pages, blogs, and social media sites to see mommies and wives who cook everything from scratch. Every toy is hand-built. Nothing is made in China.

While I strive to avoid unhealthy food and junk ( I’m insane about avoiding processed stuff and juice –only for a treat), I am not a DIY mommy truly. I try to DIY and love/insist on keeping the television off and expanding on pretend play, but I am not a Pinterest Mommy. I am not DIY mommy.

Some of the most mouth-watering foods and recipes are posted by the best mom cooks and chefs.

I’m starting to feel envious.

I would love one of these moms to be my wife.

All I need is for you to cook and never complain. Be sure to clean up after your cooking projects. Don’t leave any dirty dishes in the sink. When you’re done doing the cooking, might you make a bunch of toys and play objects for my kid to play with? Because you’re my Pinterest Wife, and that’s what wives do.

I will sit here and do what I do best. Educate, Enact a billion character voices. Teach my kid how to sing. Read to her. Teach her how to count in French and what the words cavort, cajole, and charm mean.

The Pinterest Wives of the World are making the regular wives and moms look bad. It’s like the PTA mother of the year on steroids:

The PTA mom brought cupcakes, stayed home, and never yelled.

The Pinterest DIY mom caters full events, makes all toys, keeps a clean house, never yells, never picks her nose when anyone is looking or flirts with younger men, and always darns her husband’s socks.

The Pinterest DIY mom can afford to stay home and buy everything organic, including organic band-aids. Hell, the DIY mom makes her own damn band-aids. Her husband goes to work daily with a homemade meal, and for every holiday event at work, he brings a full-spread, courtesy of DIY mom.

When I make dinner every night, I clap for myself.

When I have taught my daughter how to draw Charlie Brown, I cheer.

These moms and wives are making the regular folks like me, an endangered species. Pretty soon, no one is going to want to befriend us on the playground, and our husbands will leave us for more crafty types who make their own clothes, paint their nails with homemade nailpolish, and even furnish and decorate the house like a professional.

The average woman will be home in fear that she will be ridiculed for her store-bought polish, average home, and half-assed crock pot dishes.

Instead of being alone on the swings and divorced because I can’t make homemade pie crust, I’ve decided to enlist one of you DIY moms for my very own.

I promise to water you, but I will never feed you.

You can make your own damn food.

Signed,

A mom who likes to make brownies from the package, and flirt with the young guys at the pizza place, in no particular order.